Subversion
by kisskisskill
Summary: 'I want a list of atrocities done in your name.' Daemon Spade is a patriot of the worst kind, and that means he will do anything, anything, for the Vongola.


Disclaimer: Not mine, sadly.

Notes: Inspired by my own prompt (derp derp) on the KHR drabble meme. is such a creepy mofo, I can totally see him doing this if his other plans fell through. He _is_ a 200 year old ghost after all.

* * *

The ghost's fingers are cruel on his shoulders, fingertips biting into muscle and pinching nerves to ignite an agonizing pain that keeps Tsuna from fighting back.

"Relax, little Decimo." The voice, so like Mukuro's, whispers in his ear. Lips brush the pulse point behind it, chapped and dry like death. It's a struggle, but he manages to calm himself, only to cry out as teeth sink into the lobe and pull. Blood drips down his neck, burning red hot, but the tongue that laps it up, and the mouth that sucks hungrily at the open wound are hotter still. It's all he can do to swallow back the nausea that threatens to choke him when those blood stained lips cover his, and a determined tongue pries his open.

"Keep your eyes open." The voice croons. There are hands on his thighs, fingers pulling at his belt. "It'll all be over soon, and I wouldn't want you to miss it." The digits that slip into his pants are smooth and cool; he jerks away as they wrap about him, but with the ghost behind him, viciously strong hands holding him captive, he has no room to escape.

He looks down, and immediately wishes he hadn't. She's looking at him, but her gaze is fixed on a point past him, and he knows that she sees the ghost, and only the ghost; in her mind, her fingers are working the ghost to reluctant hardness and not him, held down and pinned between them.

He can't help the tears that come when he realizes, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that her attention is working and yes, _this is really happening_.

When he starts to sob, the ghost's lips are back, still slick with his blood and forcing entrance as they swallow the whimpers and hiccuping sighs as he fights to keep himself from falling to pieces.

It's when he starts to moan, soft and quiet in the back of his throat, useless little noises that he just can't help, that the hands coaxing him still and fall away. He can feel her getting to her feet and the whisper of fabric sliding to the ground is terrifyingly loud. He squeaks when she moves to straddle him, but he can't see anything past the eyes that are burning into him, too, too close, and he can't move, held just so so the ghost can watch him when he finally breaks. Her grasp on him again is firm and cool as it guides him and there's one last thought, _her hands are so small_, before he's surrounded by heat so intense he feels like he's being scalded.

"Fuck..." The word is foreign on his tongue- _some part of him, still sane and cut off from this nightmare, laughs that he's been spending too much time with the Storm_- and the ghost backs off, answering him with a lazy, triumphant grin. The spade in it's eye spins, and suddenly the nightmare changes, and it's not her, not soft, barely there curves, but a hard body and angry eyes and he chokes, because this is what he's never admitted he dreams of, not even to himself. The fingers dig in harder as the tempo changes, and the ghosts voice is in his ear again, coaxing and sibilant.

"I know what you want, what you crave, little Vongola." It's only been a few minutes, but he knows he can't last, he's just a boy and _Oh God, it's too much_, he can't help it, can't stop the moans that rip out of his throat as he falls deep into the ghost's trap.

He's shuddering and gasping for breath, feeling suddenly bereft, sick and violated in the aftermath as the ghost rubs soothing circles on his back, no longer needing or bothering to hold him down. He can feel a fresh round of sobs tearing at his throat, begging to be let out, and he swallows thickly against them; he's made it this far, he can't break down now, not yet. Behind him, the ghost pulls away, and he shivers, hating the fact that he misses the warmth against his back, and curls in on himself- she left him when the ghost did- and watches, feeling oddly detached as she dresses, trying to ignore the glimpse of fluid on the inside of one pale thigh.

A hand ruffles his hair, and he flinches back violently, stomach churning. "Thank you for entertaining my dear puppet, little Vongola." He can hear the laughter in the voice, and it makes the nausea worse. They're moving away now, and he can tell that she's limping without looking, and suddenly he needs to, has to know why.

The ghost laughs, dark and mocking and vicious. "I'll be sure to send you pictures of your son, Sawada Tsunayoshi. Enjoy your life, little Decimo."


End file.
